


Two Types of Death

by pocket_cheese



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Bryce is a sick bastard, Canon-Typical Violence, Clay confronts Bryce, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Series 1 Episode 12, and gets hurt in the the process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20832131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocket_cheese/pseuds/pocket_cheese
Summary: “You came here for drugs, and you got them. I was saving this kind for a girl, but nobody comes to my house to fuck with me without getting fucked with.”Clay thinks he knows what Hannah meant when she said that there are two types of death.





	Two Types of Death

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a nice fic.  
I didn't write it because I think there is anything enjoyable about what Bryce does to Clay in this work. I hope that this work presents Bryce as I see his character in this series: cruel, power-hungry and lacking in remorse.

It’s 11pm when he rings Bryce Walker’s doorbell. The porch light is on, but the street is quiet – free from the soundtrack of throbbing music and slurred voices that Clay has come to associate with the Walker’s house. He hears noises like them in his sleep sometimes, when he re-lives the night of Jessica Davis’ party - where he failed Hannah - or imagines the night when Hannah desperately needed a friend and Bryce fucking Walker took advantage of her drowning and claimed her as his prey.

There’s nobody around, just as he needs it to be if he’s going to do what he’s going to do. Clay can feel the weight of the recorder against his spine, and he knows that he _has _to do this.

For Hannah.

It doesn’t take Bryce long to open the door, eyeing Clay sceptically as Clay does his best to look inconspicuous.

“Jensen, the fuck do you want?”

He’s practiced this in his head so many times, but it still comes out wrong. Maybe it’s better that way. After all, nothing Clay says tends to come out smoothly.

“Hey, Bryce, um...Listen...I was wondering if...I mean I was hoping you wouldn't mind - Look, I know it’s weird, but I was hoping to buy some weed. It’s kind of an emergency.”

Bryce steps forwards, looking around Clay as if to check for a camera crew. Or Tyler Down.

“You want to buy some weed. From me.”

“Yeah, I do. If you wouldn't mind.”

Bryce pauses momentarily, but satisfied with Clay's intentions, shrugs and gestures for him to enter.

“Why would I mind? Come on in.”

Inside, the house is just as Clay imagined. Leather armchairs and dark wooden coffee tables. Crystal decanters well stocked with luxury whisky. French windows with a view of the pool. Clay swallows dryly as he surveys the garden area. 

“So you need some weed, huh? Because you got yours confiscated the other day.” Bryce leads Clay over to the coffee table and situates himself in an armchair.

“You heard about that?”

"Yeah, everybody did. Any time one of the squeaky clean kids gets dirty, it's pretty big news."  
  
A clean kid getting dirty. Clay wonders if that’s what Bryce thought of Hannah the night he raped her. Bryce is laughing, asking what type of weed he wants, but all he can hear is Hannah's voice playing again and again: _"I know that some of you think that there was more I could have done, or should have done. But in that moment I felt like I was already dead." _  
  
In the corner of the room, Hannah watches Clay through eyes glazed with tears. In the distance, he can see the hot tub Hannah was raped in.  
  
"I bet you have some great parties here."  
  
"Fuckin' legendary."  
  
He blinks, and he can see them in the hot tub. Bryce gripping Hannah's chest, one hand clamped firmly around the back of her neck. Hannah's head pressed against the wet concrete, her body moving passively back and forth, as if she were dead already. He feels sick, but he remembers the recorder in his backpack and the job he has to do. For Hannah.

  
  
"Let me get my cash. How much is it?"  
  
"Most people pay 60 bucks for an eighth. I pay 40."

Clay nods, rummaging through his backpack in a false pretence of searching for money. Bryce watches on humorously, missing the minute click of the record button being pressed.  
  
"You know what buddy, fuck it. Just bring some to my next party. We'll call it even."  
  
"Yeah, sure." Clay straightens up, pausing as Bryce continues to bag the weed. "Hannah Baker told me about one of your parties."

“Hannah Baker. Sucks what happens to her – she was such a beautiful girl.”  
  
Clay breathes in deeply. She was beautiful. Until Justin Foley, Jessica Davis, Alex Standall, Tyler Down, Courtney Crimson, Marcus Cole, Zach Dempsey, Ryan Shaver, Sheri Holland, Bryce Walker, Clay Jensen...until together, they had ruined her.

“You and Hannah...you had sex with her that night.”   
  
"Did I? Yeah, I might have." Bryce says it so casually. As if it didn't matter. As if hurting Hannah was inconsequential.   
  
“Did she want you to?”   
  
"I assume so. Hannah and I - we had a thing, off and on." Bryce rises with a smirk and slopes languidly into the kitchen. Clay can feel Hannah's eyes on him, can feel his blood boiling over, and before he can stop himself he's shouting at Bryce's retreating back.

“You raped her. You fucking raped her. A week before she slit her wrists and died at home, you raped her."  
  
There’s a pause, and Bryce edges closer, fists balled and shoulders square. "She came to my party. Mine. She got in the hot tub with me, without a suit on, right? And she made eyes. I know that's hard for you to hear, that your crush wasn't pure and clean. But she fucking _wanted_ it."  
  
Clay's fist connects with Bryce's face before he can process it. He's breathing hard, his heart beating even faster.

For a fraction of a second, he thinks that Bryce is going to walk away, but then Bryce is hitting him everywhere: his face, his stomach...there are kicks hailing on his chest and ribs, and he curls up as best as he can, but that doesn't stop the blood pouring from his nose or the skin splitting on his cheek. Bryce is pulling him up by the arm and punching him back down to the ground, again and again.  
  
He blacks out, and when the dark spots go away and he can see a semblance of the world again, Bryce is cleaning bloody knuckles and Hannah is sitting in the armchair, watching him with her chin against her hand. She disappears when he crawls towards her, too dizzy and in too much pain to stand, so he pulls himself into the chair where she had been, hoping to feel some vestige of her warmth and knowing that there was none left.  
  
“Respect. Jesus, Jensen, respect!” The pixels rearrange themselves, and Bryce is by the decanters, pouring two glasses of whisky. There's a glass being pressed into his hand and an offering of ice wrapped in a serviette.  
  
Bryce knocks his glass against Clay's, a mockery of 'cheers', and Clay hesitates before draining the whisky. His face stings and his throat burns, but he has to know.

“So she wanted it. She got in the hot tub. With you. And that means she wanted it.”

“Yeah. She did.”  
  
“But she didn’t tell you so.”  
  
“She didn’t have to. Girls play games.”  
  
“She didn’t say that she wanted you to fuck her?”  
  
“She never said no.”  
  
“And that’s not rape?”  
  
“Why do you care so much about this?”  
  
Clay's voice cracks. “I just need to hear you say it. Did you rape Hannah Baker?”  
  
“You want to call it rape, call it rape. Same difference.”  
  
Clay shakes his head at the absurdity of it all. He sets the glass on the table beside him and reaches for his backpack. His fingers are numb, and the dizziness is worse than before. It takes an immense amount of effort to get out of the chair – his limbs don’t seem to be co-ordinating themselves as he would like them to. He makes it three steps before he collides with the floor.

Something is wrong.

Very wrong.

Bryce finishes his drink before he moves to stand over him, feet planted firmly on either side of Clay’s aching ribs. He bends down, taking Clay’s bag from him and fishing out the recorder.  
  
“You didn’t tell me you were such a lightweight, Jensen. How are you going to tell your mom you drank too much and got in a fight?”  
  
Clay tries to move, but Bryce plants his foot firmly on Clay’s chest.  
  
“You came here for drugs, and you got them. I was saving this kind for a girl, but nobody comes to my house to fuck with me without getting fucked with.”

Bryce sneers as he throws the recorder against the wall, hard, and grabs Clay by the torso. In a matter of seconds, he’s upside down. Bryce is carrying him somewhere, each step making him feel like he’s going to vomit. He tries to pull away, but Bryce’s grip on him is strong.

He’s fading in and out of consciousness, but he dimly registers being dropped on his stomach, his ribs protesting the harsh treatment.

He feels Bryce pulling at his clothes and forcing his arms above his head, the cool click of handcuffs around his wrists being attached to the headboard.

He realises, too late, that Bryce has divested him of his trousers and underwear. He feels the agony of Bryce entering him. The vulnerability and sheer panic of his body failing to react to the impulse to run or fight.

“Bryce...” He mumbles through the iron in his mouth. His tongue is heavy, and his lips are numb now too.

Bryce doesn’t hear him. He’s too busy making the body beneath him hurt.  
  
Clay doesn’t know how long it goes on for. He must have passed out, because when he wakes up Bryce isn’t in the room. He pulls against the handcuffs, but they aren’t cheap plastic ones. They don’t break. There is blood on the white pillows under his head and his thighs feel damp too. He tries to move, but even without Bryce’s body pressing him down, he’s trapped.

Bryce sits on the edge of the bed, watching him. After a moment, he leans over and undoes the handcuffs. Clay flexes his fingers shakily. His wrists are bruised. There’s blood under his nails and grooves in his palms from where he’s clenched his fists. Bryce's hand is on his face, forcing Clay to look at him. He grips Clay's jaw for a long moment, his expression hard and cold before he tosses Clay's clothes onto his stomach and exits the room.

Clay thinks he knows what Hannah meant when she said that there are two types of death.

**Author's Note:**

> Never wrote this type of fic before, and believe me, I didn't find it particularly pleasant to write. That said, I couldn't get the thought out of my head that things could have been much worse for Clay in series 1 episode 12, so here it is.


End file.
